think outside the box

"honey,
why don't you like this dress?"
mom asks as we pull out shiny
baubled sweaters and itchy scarves
at goodwill.

"it's your size."
"it's not my type."
"what do you mean?" mom laughs.

what do i mean?
let me think. what the hell do i mean?
i mean that after 20 years,
she still can't tell that i'm not comfortable
in dresses.
20 years and i still get the fitted shirts
with "genuine girl", flowers, and american flags
patterned across them
thrown out at me in the aisles.

but what do i mean, not my type?
ever since they put that oozing jelly
on her belly
i've been a girl.
since they stuffed on the pink hat.
since they put me in "daddy's little girl"
onesies.

i never had a choice, a type.

they put us in boxes -
1 or 2,
pink or blue.
what do you mean you don't fit?
the hell is wrong with you?

GIRL or BOY
oh, my bad -
BOY or GIRL
because we know which comes first
we know which is #1
you'd tell your son to choose the blue bike over the pink
and by the time he's an old man,
he'll be tellin his little boys
don't touch those barbies,
you ain't a homo.

dude, don't put that ariel picture on your wall;
you're not a girl.
put back the pink backpack;
pick up the football.
cut out the girl push ups;
save up for your first motorcycle.
forget the long hair;
cut the gay away.

hon, why are you playing with race cars?
there's barbies in the other aisle!
there's fake pockets on your pants?
that's what purses are for!
why don't you do your makeup?
some nice blue eye shadow -
your eyes will pop!
oh, not that they're not pretty already.
don't wear a bra to bed; your boobs won't grow.

so? BOY or GIRL, which will it be?
you think an ultrasound can tell you
the gender of that thing?
they haven't even learned their first word
haven't even cooed,
haven't even gotten a whole scrapbook
dedicated to them
but wait-
pink scrapbook
or blue?

there is no third color, no other.
the yellow walls are only for the unfortunate,
undecided,
unannounced,
unsure,
uncomfortable.
we laugh at the stunted yellow ones,
the gender nonconformists.
the hell's wrong with them?
you can't cheat the system.

come on! THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX!
they chant in school.
if you wanna get in the group for smart kids,
think outside the box.
think outside the box.
forget everything they've told you;
throw it away for an hour.
all 10 years,
all 3650 days,
all 520 weeks,
all 87600 hours,
and that ain't even counting leap years.

so tell me,
how do i think outside this box?
because i'm pushing and shoving and i haven't
felt an escape route for 20 years.
you keep telling me it gets better,
but i'm suffocating here.

oh. that's why.

i am the box.

Not much of a choice.

I want to be what society considers feminine. So much so that people would never wonder whether I'm a boy or not. They'd see my "I'm not really a waitress" nail polish and my Pretty in Pink lipstick and my bronzer and they wouldn't think twice. That one time I walked into FedEx and the cashier asked me, "are you a girl?" Yeah, that would never have happened.

If I was more feminine, I would walk down the street with my hips swaying, my ass nicely outlined by a salmon colored satin dress with a nice little impractically sized pocket right over my right boob. I would have a brown shoulder bag that would bounce off my hip every time I stepped daintily on the sidewalk in my high straw wedges.

If I was more feminine, I would attract men with my award winning smile. Women would have no idea that I'm a lesbian, but it'd be okay because I have a girlfriend, which they also wouldn't know about. I'd play hard to get and strut at the movie theater past boys who were immature in our high school geometry class. Their X-ray stares would seep through my clothes and I'd feel dirty just being in their presence, but I'd disguise my disgust by smiling through my Funky Fuchsia lip gloss.

If I was more feminine, I would purse my lips and glue on falsies for bedroom photoshoots. I would post makeup tutorials on YouTube and people would be taken aback and horrified when I spoke my mind. People would take one look at my long brown hair that would curl down to my elbows and Katie beside me and they'd know I'm the femme to her butch.

I would roll my eyes and want to vomit at cat calls near the ATM next to Mad Mex and I would laugh them off with my straight friends later. I would wear cute underwear with bows and push up bras and I'd fill in my eyebrows and draw on cat eye eyeliner, whatever that means. I would do bikini waxes and shave every other day and never participate in No Shave November. And I would never wander into GameStop, never do yard work, never walk down the street without a man. After all, that's what I've been told is feminine.

But I want to be masculine. I want to make people believe I live on the edge even when I don't. I want to make people question my gender identity. I want to march down the street in Doc Martens that reach my calves. And from there up would be black Levi's and a blue button up with practical pockets. I might even have a matching hat.

If I was more masculine, my crew cut wouldn't confuse anyone. My showers would be even shorter than they are now and I wouldn't even have to towel dry my hair. People would take one look at it and automatically assume my sexuality, and they wouldn't be too surprised when I set my eyes on that curvy girl in Forever 21. But they'd question why I walked in in the first place.

If I was more masculine, I would be the butch to my girlfriend's butch and it would confuse the living hell out of people. They would strain their eyes trying to find something feminine that she does so that she could become the girly one. My dad would hardly notice, since he wants to buy me manly pants for the sole purpose of fitting my iPhone in them, but my mom would be crushed when I would reject her spontaneous, cheap makeup gifts.

I would get teased even more often for being vegan, because "that's a girly thing," but when people would see my feminist patches on my jean jacket, they'd roll their eyes and go, "stereotype." I would never paint my nails and I would always file them down, making sure they can't make that annoying clicking sound my ex hated so much when I rap them on the table.

Whether I present more masculine or feminine or a mixture of both, people will always try to peel off my skin and try see what I really am. It'll always bother me when I'm holding hands with my girlfriend in public and people stare judgingly, but it'd also hurt if I didn't have a girlfriend to hold hands with and no obvious signal for them to know I'm not straight. All I really want is for people to pass me by on the street without a word.